I don't mind lament restrictions;
placated at the boundary of misguided desire,
daemons wager beneath a cruciform shadow,
counting mortal sins with an unforgiving candor,
they see with centuries of waking consciousness:
everything left by a staged naiveté,
those raptured children of becoming
wiping away tears of blood, they're
shouting for mercy within the first degree of twilight, and
wishing for a final clarity
before our iniquity fades with the stream, and
cursive plagues written on air
consume what's left of an innocent soul.